In its premiere at the Guthrie Theater in Minneapolis, Arthur
Millerís satire Resurrection Blues handily nails humankind and
American society to the cross of economic corruption and the mediaís
trivialialization of everything and anything in the name of commerce.
Thatís no mean feat, and such hefty themes should be safe in the hands of
Mr. Miller, who gave us those great classics of American theater, Death
of a Salesman and The Crucible. But the play disengages me when a high
moral tone or an overly long exposition cracks through the dark follies
of satire and slows the action.

Miller sets the play in an unnamed South American country that is
ruled by a military dictatorship and is supported by the US. The top
one percent hold a lock on wealth and dread revolution; narco-money and
brutal repression are the order of the day, but from among the peasantry,
a Messiah-like young man arises who preaches love and develops a
following, a man who literally lights up.

General Felix Barriaux decides to crucify him, and a New York ad
agency buys the exclusive world rights for $25 million to this
irresistible 24-hour-plus ordeal; after all, it can be interrupted with
frequent commercials. But when the film crew arrives and the director
understands she is to film a live crucifixion, she balks, and the play
unfolds.

Mr. Miller creates some strong characters and dialogue.
Particularly well realized under David Esbjornsonís direction are
General Felix, played by John Bedford Lloyd, and David Chandlerís
Skip Cheeseboro, the ad agencyís film producer.

The physically imposing Lloyd, all toffed up in a ribbon-and-medal-
studded uniform, finds just the right mix of bombast and self-centered
neediness in the imperious General, whose guiding principal is, "Fuck
them, before they can fuck you." Yet he also admits to impotence: "My dog
just wonít hunt," he says.

Chandler invests Skip Cheeseboro with a resolute shallowness;
heís there to make a buck, regardless of what he films. Where
shallowness belongs to Skip, itís a less comfortable fit for Laila Robinís
nicely complex character, the frayed blonde film director Emily Shapiro.
Robins gives a strong performance of a woman torn between her sensitivity
and the superficial life she has learned to live. As she says, her job is
to make fake things look real.

In a well shaded smaller role, Bruce Bohne convinces as the
emaciated addict, Stanley, the unseen revolutionaryís friend.

Resurrectionís problems lie with the remaining two main
characters, the Generalís cousin Henri Schultz and his daughter
Jeanine, both of whom serve as the conscience of the play in a manner that
better serves drama than satire.

Jeff Weiss plays the equivocating intellectual, Henri. He has
Marxist leanings, heís troubled by the lot of the impoverished
peasants, and heís dabbled in revolution. But he canít quite give up the
income from his pharmaceutical businesses and his coca-growing farms.
Weiss plays Henri as a likeable ditherer. He never quite finds his
character, due in part to the way the role is written; it is Henriís
indulgence in little lectures that slows the play down.

Mr. Miller also loads the role of Jeanine, Henriís daughter, who
becomes the mouthpiece for moral outrage at the US and its complicit
taxpayers who support the murderous regime of the General. Wendy vanden
Heuvel does what she can with Jeanineís relatively underwritten
character.

Director Esbjornsonís staging of Resurrection on the Guthrieís
challenging thrust stage is simple and evocative. Onto a shallow back-scrim are projected Michael Sommersí shadow puppets of a trophy secretary,
a giant vulture, mountains and palm trees, as scenes change. Set designer
Christine Jonesí effective set panels lower from the ceiling to join
minimal furniture pieces and a wooden cross in the making, and Marcus
Dilliardís clever lighting ties all these elements into a believable
geography of place.

In its first outing, Resurrection is funny and dark, but until it
resists an inclination to broadcast its moral undercurrent and pushes all
its characters into the embrace of satire, it will not punch us square in our
complacent American guts.